


I am glad we talked

by BeesocksnKneesocks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, I never thought I'd enjoy parentlock but here I am, M/M, Post Season 4, Suicide mention, casual stimmy sherlock, death mention, i didnt specify what john is wearing, i promised you fic and here it is, johnlock happens, just uhm cheesy, sherlock is good with kids it's canon, so just picture him in your fav check shirt and cardigan, talking about feelings, writing in present tense is fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 19:02:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9507809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeesocksnKneesocks/pseuds/BeesocksnKneesocks
Summary: Sherlock and John are back in Baker Street and have a heart-to-heart. Finally. Nuff said.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Heya it's Kneesocks aka sherlockstims!
> 
> After months of, well, nothing, here's some Johnlock. Hooray.  
> Enjoy!

"So... should we..,...yes, we should talk about this."   
John clears his throat and clings harder to his glass of water. The rug beneath his feet is brand-new, more bristly than fluffy ( it tickles through his socks ) - originally purchased for his and Mary's flat, but never used until now. It still stubbornly tries to roll up at the edges. 

  
221b Baker Street finally looks and feels familiar -- cleaner, yes, still missing the stench of failed experiments and cigarette smoke and unwashed clothes. But it's home because they're together. Maybe it's even nicer that way, now that they have to take care of the baby.   
  
Sherlock, in pyjamas and his blue dressing gown, his bare feet up on the seat of his chair, silently nods. An unfinished cup of tea is balanced precariously on the armrest.   
The baby bed stands in Sherlock's bedroom, Rosie is sound asleep after having breakfast. She's easier to deal with now - Sherlock is surprisingly good with kids.   
  
John longingly glances at the expensive bottle of whiskey stawed away somewhere in the kitchen cupboards. A birthday gift from Mycroft. Well not officially a birthday gift. More of a housewarming gift that he brought when they had finished painting the walls. It had just happened to be around his birthday.   
_ Oh Mycroft, that sly fox knows exactly what he's doing _ .   
He hasn't drunk in a while, now that he thinks about it. John downs his water, eyes half-fixated on Sherlock's form opposite of him. 

_ Talk _ ,  _ now _ , he tries to give himself a nudge but finds that he can't stop watching Sherlock in the utter silence of the situation.   
His slender fingers are softly drumming on top of his knees. His nails are clipped a little too short, probably done in a hurry. Sherlock never takes time for these things. There is always something messy about him.   
  
"I'm sorry all of this happened to you," John finally says, "you didn't deserve it, that's for sure."    
Sherlock shrugs.   
  
"Who deserves anything at all?" Sherlock counters, his tone musing, "life doesn't exist in a system of karma or gods, where goodness is rewarded with goodness or something like that." he shakes his head, for some reason looking amused at his own words,

"You definitely did not deserve getting shot in Afghanistan. You did not deserve losing -" his voice gets funny for a second -"Sholto, or Mary. "   
  


For a moment, John is incapable of replying. 

  
"I didn't want to make this about me," he mutters, taking in a deep breath to ground himself,   
"But I can't really contradict when you say that I deserve better than the - you could say, miserable life I've had. "

  
He thinks back at the gun he kept by his bed, years ago, in the small one-room-flat he could barely afford, the very same gun he flicked into the Thames after saving Sherlock's life for the very first time. For a while, it had itched him to go buy a new one, just in case, just in  _ bloody _ case.    
And then, after Sherlock's (well  _ assumed _ ) death, it was even more difficult to shake that thought off.    
Way too often, depression is a lifelong companion that seizes any given opportunity to creep out of the shadows and take control.   
Yet,  _ yet _ , Sherlock is always the one to turn things around. Life has its ups and downs, but Sherlock is the cushion that saves him from hitting rock bottom hard enough to shatter.   
  
"John, I think you should know that I think you are a brave man."   
His statement doesn't echo in the room. It falls flatly on the carpeted floor beneath them.   
"You are so very very loved, John Watson." Sherlock gestures towards his bedroom door. For a split second John expects something akin to a love confession from Sherlock until he realizes he's referring to Rosie, John's own flesh and blood. 

Small children love unconditionally.    
_ They have no choice, biologically speaking _ , Sherlock mentioned once,  _ but it's almost beautiful _ . John wonders briefly whether he's ever seen Mycroft that way, as someone he used to love unconditionally back in his childhood days. 

  
"I... Yeah, reckon so." John finally replies, feeling the fondness in his tone like it's honey on his vocal cords. To his own astonishment, it's not rough with disappointment.

  
"When I said you were family, John." Sherlock is the one to clear his throat now,   
"I did mean it. You are just as irreplaceable in my life as Mycroft."

  
"Oh...okay."

  
"That's a bit of an underwhelming reply, don't you think."

  
"Uhm, it might be, sorry. I just don't know what to say."

  
"You were the one who wanted to have this conversation."

  
"Yeah - yeah. I know."

  
"Are you planning on meeting people?” Sherlock asks eventually,    
“find yourself a new mother for Rosie, maybe.”

 

Something about Sherlock’s question upsets him deeply, and he frowns, grimaces, his hands tense up.

 

“Are you insane, Sherlock? I wouldn’t… “ his own sighing interrupts him,   
“I don’t want to do this all over again, not  _ now _ , not now that we finally have-” he gestures about passionately, “have  _ this _ .”

 

_ But it’s home, because they’re together. _

 

“Look at what we have, you and me.” He sinks back into  _ his  _ _chair_ , huffing and puffing with something that goes beyond passion. Exasperation?    
“I would be nuts to not want this.”

 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, and his long legs unfold to let his feet slip to the ground. John seems distressed, and his immediate response is to  _ go save. _

 

“John, are you alright?” 

 

“I’m fine. Did you get an answer to your question?”

 

Sherlock nods, pulling one knee to his chest again. The fabric of his dressing gown falls softly over his thigh.

 

“I should not have assumed. I'm sorry, John.”

 

“It’s alright… I mean, that’s what I always have done, right? Find myself someone else. It’s a bad habit.”

 

Like he found Mary after Sherlock jumped. It feels like that was terribly long ago. Maybe it was, actually.

Oddly, Sherlock snickers.

 

“Sorry, but saying  _ you  _ are the one with a bad habit, that’s sorta funny.”

 

John snorts, scolding himself -   _ dammit why do I find him funny? _

 

“Everyone has vices. You have drugs, I have bad luck with dates.”

 

“I wouldn’t call it a vice, per se,  but you know, whatever you want, I am sure Mycroft can change dictionaries, too.”

And then they both laugh, proper whole-body-giggle-fits. The teacup falls, wetting the rug, but they don’t care. 

When they have caught their breath again, they catch each other's gaze.

 

Grey and indigo meet seafoam and the colour of rain and neither of them believe that eye contact could ever be this intense. It's not like in a romantic novel where sparks fly and flames lap at their cheeks. It's  _ warm _ , enjoyable, dreamy.

 

“Without you, I was dying of jealousy and loneliness, not to mention, well, the drugs.” Sherlock says, dead serious all of the sudden, his gaze still fixed upon John’s.   
John stares, eyes wide.

“It’s difficult for me to exist without you, John Watson. Never has a person given so much meaning to my life before.”

The utter earnestness startles him. These words, in that tone of voice, from Sherlock bloody Holmes. No way.

 

“Sherlock, are you, uhm… okay?” he almost says “high” but he  _ knows  _ he isn’t.

 

“Never been better. I just wanted you to know.” His voice becomes small for a second.

 

“You don’t really do that, spill your guts like that.” John clears his throat, now more than ever yearning for the whiskey in the cupboard.

 

“I figured sometimes you just have to. Before it’s too late, that is. You said it yourself.”

 

“I did, din’t I.”

 

A minute of quiet follows.

 

“You know, Sherlock, despite all, I’m - I’m glad that we ended up here again.”

 

The taller man smiles softly (softly, but brightly, like the first few rays of sun), dragging his fingers through his curly hair.

 

“So am I.”    
He shuffles in his chair, the other hand squeezed under his thigh.

John quietly watches him, and gets up.

 

“Are you going anywhere?” Sherlock asks, looking up.

 

“Yes, I am going to act on a ridiculous impulse now.”

 

With the certainty and confidence of Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, veteran of Kandahar and Bart’s bloody hospital, John bridges the distance between them with two firm steps.

Sherlock frowns first, but then he just lets it happen, curiously folding his hands in his lap.

 

“It’s not ridiculous, is it?,” John asks. Leaning forward, hands on the armrests, and Sherlock still sitting, they are the same height now, close enough for their noses to almost touch. It feels like a question.

 

“It is what it is.” Sherlock breathes - a reply. 

 

When their mouths collide, the room doesn’t spin. It stays where it is, they stay where they are. It doesn’t feel like a dream -- just  _ better _ . A smaller hand jumps from the armrest to grab Sherlock’s shirt collar, and Sherlock’s bony fingers find the the excess fabric of John’s cardigan, too. It lasts - how long, neither of them can say - but it  _ lasts _ , and it feels heavenly.

As they pull away, their eyes are just opening again. Slowly, gently, like flowers after a rainfall.

And now, they feel dizzy.  _ Now  _ they feel warm and sated to their fingertips with bliss.

 

“That was good.” John murmurs plainly, resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Their arms have magically found their ways around the other's body. The closeness feels good - somehow fulfilling.

 

“Mhm,” Sherlock nods against his hair, “I agree.”

They remain in their - admittedly awkward - hug (John halfway on Sherlock’s lap, but still with both feet on the ground) and silently forget time. No clocks tick aways in Baker Street. 

 

Only when Rosie stirs in the bedroom and shrieks and cries for attention, they finally let go.

 

“You or me?” John asks, tone of voice teasing, a wide grin on his face.

 

“I’ll go. You can make some tea.” Sherlock suggests, and jumps to his feet. John will never understand how Sherlock can be  _ this  _ energetic.

 

“Sure.”

 

Before Sherlock disappears into the bedroom to comfort a ( _ their _ ) crying child, he turns around, his eyes gleaming.   
“I am glad we talked, John.” 

 

“Me too.” John replies, his face just as bright as Sherlock’s.


End file.
